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The Story of My Life 
and IVork. 



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BY 

BEN HOPE 



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THE GAFFNEY LEDGER 

GAFFNEY, S. C. 



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THE AUTHOR 



ASPIRATION. 

Holy, Eternal and changeless Goodness at tms 
joyous season, (the "good old summer-time,") we 
would join the ever beautiful voices of Nature in 
praising the wisdom and the Goodness of Nature's 
God, and we ask Thee that we may be ever swift in 
learning the lessons Thou hast set before us, swift 
and perfect in reading that holy volume that is 
written in rock and rill, mountain and valley, flower 
and fruit, everywhere, for the instruction of these 
children, Thy little earth-born babes who are strug- 
gling toward the threshold of knowledge. Oh, Holy 
Spirit of Light and Love Divine, guide us in our 
search for knowledge and for truth, and may we 
ever do Thee honor in seeking and in finding and in 
worshiping Thee in the inner Life of all which Thou 
hast created. Hold us ever in the Bosom of Thy 
Love. What matters it whether the storms rage 
wildly around us, or whether we sit in the calm star- 
light of Love and Peace? Thou art ever with us 
and Thy strong arm is our sufficient shield. Thy 
mighty Love will ever sustain us and become thro' 
our earnest efforts our Light, our Life, and our 
Holiest Love forever and forevermore. Amen. 

—Selected from the author's Scrap Book. 



INTRODUCTION. 

"Books are the food of youth, the delight of old 
age; the ornament of prosperity, the refuge and 
comfort of adversity; a delight at home, and no 
hindrance abroad: companions by night in traveling; 
in the country." — Cicero. And may my book meet 
these requirements! 

"Yes, do send me a book. . . . Not a bargain book, 
bought from a haberdasher, but a beautiful book, 
a book to caress — peculiar, distinctive, individual 
A book that hath first caught your eye and then 
pleased your fancy, written by an author with a 
tender whim, all right out of his heart. We will 
read it together in the gloaming, and when the 
gathering dusk doth blur the page, we'll sit with 
hearts too full for speech and think it over." — 
Dorothy Wordsworth to Coleridge. 

Such a book, gentle reader, is "The Story of My 
Life and Work," written by the Knight of the Pen. 
Yours very truly, 
James Stanhope Love ("Ben Hope.") 



The Story of My Life and Work 



CHAPTER I. 

Iwas bom on the morning of the eighth of March, 
18S7. My home is in the Western section of York 
County, South Caroline, about seven or eight miles 
clue west of the town of Yorkville, the county seat, 
and about two or three allies Southwest (if I mis 
take not?) of Beeisheba tresbyterian church, of 
which house of worship I am a member. It is situ- 
ated on a small, poor, and rather lonely farm, right 
near two running streams which are known as 
Buckliorn and Silver Creek, — names purely local in 
their origin and use. It is just a small, ordinary 
log house to which has been recently added a 
dress of weatherboarding, such as most people 
live in away down here in the Sunny South. It was 
built by my father, Mr. William James Love, about 
thirty years ago, in what was, at that time, a thick 
wood of pine and oak timber. But since then all 
of those great woods have been cut down and clear- 
ed away, and so I now (July, 1909) live out in the 
open country; — where the sky is bright and blue, 
where the little birds sweetly sing in the trees, 
where the wildflowers bloom, and perfume the 
atmosphere with their fragrance; where the air is 
pure, refreshing and sweet, and where the "dry 



fly" sings its beautiful summer song— "all summei 
long." 

About six or seven miles &. little Northeast of 
my home, lies Filbert, a small flag station on the 
Carolina and Northwestern Railway which ex- 
tends from Chester, South Carolina, to Lenoir, 
North Carolina, — if I am not in error. It is situated 
on a high, dry, smooth, sandy, gravelly spot about 
half way between Yorkville and Clover (South Car- 
olina), And somewhere in the section of territory 
rather West or Northwest of where I live, lies 
"The Nation"— a neighbrhood so named because of 
its supposed ignorance, vulgarity, superstition, and 
illiteracy. I have never visited "The Nation," and 
so I cannot, here and now, speak with a perfect 
knowledge of conditions in that place. Neverthe- 
less, I am, in view of certain facts with reference 
to the weakness of humanity and of all human 
flesh, almost constrained to believe that the peo- 
ple over there are not nearly so bad as they have 
been portrayed by their neighbors. For Ave all 
know the weakness which people have always had, 
— and, I suppose, always will have, — for misrepre- 
senting men, things .and conditions. 

Other points of local interest around here, which 
are near to my "place of abode," are: The Chapel 
and New Zion, Methodist churches; Enon and 
Union, Baptist churches, Ramah and Beth-Shiloh, 
Presbyterian churches; Smyrna, Hickory Grove and 
Sharon — the* latter three being small towns, of 
which Hickorv CJrove is the largest. And other 



* 



names, altogether local in their origin and use 
around my Southern home, are: "The Locust Hill," 
"Cotton Belt," "Sandy Flat," Cain's Spring— where 
they used to have great picnics, and "The Coaling- 
Ground" — where they used to make whiskey, be- 
come intoxicated, "cuss" and fight among them- 
selves, and live and pass away in ignorance and 
illiteracy. These are the names of sections of no 
mere than just local interest, I know; but our peo. 
pie love them, I might say, even as all people love 
and cling to their own respective names, neighbor- 
hoods and local traditions. And, too, I might add 
to this paragraph the fact, that I've heard it said 
that there never yet has been a person found, who 
would willingly admit that he or she came from 
"The Nation" — although "The Nation" does cover 
considerable territory in Western York, I know. 
But that is, after all, neither here nor there, I sup- 
pose. For who wants to ever boast of being a 
"Nationite"? Certainly not one have I ever seen, 
who had any wish to lay claims to this "eminent 
distinction" which isn't eminent. 

We have no telephones, no telegraphs, no .auto- 
mobiles, and no railway trains running in our back- 
woods home. It is therefore almost an old-time com- 
munity, I might say; although we do have one 
store, one school house, and the great R. F. D. 
Ours is called Filbert No. 1, by reason of the fact 
that it was the first route, — and, as yet, it is the on- 
ly one,-— to issue from that place. It was instituted 
on November the 15th, 1904, with Mr. William A. 



Carroll as its carrier. He lias carried the mail on 
it ever since with, eminent ability. Mr. H. S. Love 
is our lone merchant-farmer in this settlement of 
"cottontots"— if I may be permitted to use this ex- 
pression with reference to them. And I know that 
they really merit such a title; for cotton is their 
principal crop. 

The R. F. D. is a grand thing for us, and I am 
quite certain that nobody has ever appreciated it 
more, or been more deeply grateful to its author for 
it, than I am today. Therefore I exclaim: All honor 
to the eminent and distinguished Georgian, Hon. 
Thomas E. Watson, for his invaluable services in 
securing the R. F. D. for us country people. May 
his name never be forgotten; may his fame be 
deathless; and may this system always remain in 
our country, as a monument to the honor of the man 
who had the interests of the common people at heart 
while he w^as a member of Congress! "Tom Wat- 
son" loves his country with all the intensity of his 
kindly, sympathetic, fiery, passionate nature; and 
he labored for its welfare, when he was in Congress, 
with powerful ability. 

T have visited Yorkville and Filbert, passed 
through "Cotton Belt" and by "Sandy Flat," at- 
tended preaching at Beersheba, Beth-Shiloh and 
Union churches; but have seen none of the other 
places named in the foregoing, except The Chapel 
and Silver Creek — a small stream about one-fourth 
of a mile south from my little log cabin home. It 
is a clear, fast-flowing stream, the water of which 

10 



nearly always remains warm and silvery-looking 
in the summer sunshine. And so our people have 
called it Silver Creek. Buckhorn is .much larger 
than the one which I have just described, and some- 
times it rises out of its banks, and sweeps away 
everything in its path that can be swept away. 
Woe unto all crops that may be found growing near 
its banks when once it overflows, too; for generally 
there is nothing worth while left of them. This 
stream received its name from the horns, or antlers, 
of the male deer — called buckhorn after it has been 
made into some useful article. There was once, 
when the pioneers first came, a very great abun- 
dance of game living, and roving about, in the al- 
most unbroken forests of York County; but those 
good old hunting days have long ago made their 
departure — nevermore to return, I suppose. There 
'now remain only a very few small birds, rabbits 
squirrels, opossums, and— here and there in the 
creeks about over the country— a few small mem- 
bers of the finny tribe to tell the story of what 
used to be. Ah! what changes time does bring 
about! To think it all over g/ves one a peculiarly 
sad, sweet, serious feeling — for which I would not 
take all of the gold that might be in the world to- 
day unless I could still retain the power to fee! 
as I now feel while pennng these words. 

The land in my neighborhood, tho' still very fer- 
tile, is not so good and productive as it once was, 
but corn, oats, wheat, peas, cotton, and almost any 
thing else that is of value, or in any way contributes 

11 



to the prosperity of the farmer, can be raised in 
this place. And so vve all love our home-neighbor- 
hood quite -as well as any neighborhood ever was 
loved. Long may she live! 

My immediate family connections are neither 
large nor rich, but they have always been respecta- 
ble. They are the descendants of those Loves (in 
Ireland pronounced Luve) who along with num- 
bers of other settlers, emigrated from Ireland to 
this country some time during the eighteenth cen- 
tury, and pioneered this section of the Palmetto 
State — whose motto is ''Ready with our lives and 
property." My great-grandfather Love was one of 
these devoted patriots who assisted in vanquishing 
the British and the Tories at the battle of King's 
Mountain, during the Revolutionary war. My family 
names are Love, Land, Davidson • and Chambers — 
but it is scarcely necessary, I suppose, to go any 
farther into detail along this line here. So I will de- 
sist for the time being. 

Now I will close this chapter of my story. I 
could go en for several more pages, but I fear that 
my readers have already become tired of its slow- 
ness toward growing into a real, live, complete 
narrative. Therefore, I shall add only one more bit 
of information, pertaining to my own old home 
neighborhood, to this chapter, in order that my 
readers may the more readily understand that 
which is to be narrated in the following pages, to- 
wit: 

The family names, native to this place, are: 

12 



Love, Caldwell, Brown, McElwee, Cain, Davidson, 
Land, Wallace and Smith. These are the names 
of the oldest and most prominent families who live 
in old "Buckhorn" — which I am sometimes pleased 
to call this section. 

Said James Montgomery, in speaking of his own 
native country: "I love thee, O my native Isle!" 

Therefore, the Knight of the Pen might well say, 
in view of the foregoing pages which describe his 
home community, and in view of that which still 
remains to be written about it in the following 
pages, — yes, I repeat, he might well s,ay: 'T love 
thee, O my own native Backwoods Home!" P'or I 
am devoted to South Carolina, 



CHAPTER II. 

I am a shut--in, having never been able to walk 
,a step during the whole twenty-two years of my 
life. I am not a physical weakling, in a literal 
sense. I just cannot walk; that's all. My general 
health is good, and I eat and sleep well. When I 
was yet quite small the late Dr. Bratton, of York- 
ville, " gave me medical treatment — but it was of 
no avail whatever. My complexion is fair, my hair 
is dark and very heavy, my eyes are blue and have 
ia half-sad, half-glad expression issuing from their 
depths; my forehead and chin are broad and deep- 
set, and T am a small man. Having been compelled 
to sit all of my life, T am therefore rather stoop- 
shouldered, and my limbs are not. very well de- 

13 



veloped. I can stand up on my feet by catching 
hold of something or other as a support; and I can 
see, hear, talk, read, write and study just as weli 
and with just as much satisfaction, as anybody else 
ever did or ever will. 

I have never attended school a day, have never- 
been father away from home than ten miles, have 
never ridden in a railway train, have never been 
inside of a "Temple of Justice," have never seen 
the wide sea; and there are besides these, many 
other things which I have never seen — neither have 
I clone. But I am happy! Nothing has ever trou- 
bled me except my own physical weakness, and my 
inability to satisfy the cravings of my physical self. 
It is true that, several times in my life, the future 
did seem dark and forbidding. Yet, the Father, in 
His infinite mercy, has never yet failed to give 
me strength to bear my affliction, and in a spirit 
which is at once heroic in, and becoming to, one 
who loves to consider himself "every inch" a man. 

When I was a little boy I was ill much of my 
time. Scarcely a month ever came and went, in 
those "seas of memory" without my being ill for 
at least a few days of the time. But as I become 
older I have gradually become stronger; and so 
my health is now, I suppose, about as good as the 
average person's. My powers of endurance, how- 
ever, are much limited; and I cannot ride very tar 
at one time without being tired and buggy-worn 
afterward— though T can endure more today than 
I once could. People have sometimes, and in my 

14 



healing, expressed the possibility of my one day 
becoming auie 10 waiK. .mit 1 uiniK not; not om.\ 
because ot my own pnysicai weaKiiess, but also be- 
cause ot a oeitain mournful presentiment which has 
long been in my mind. Ah me! the world will 
never know just how difficult it is i'or a man of my 
nature, and my desires, to make himself contented. 
But the Father has done for me what no other 
power within the comprehension of mankind could 
do: He has made me feel absolutely resigned to 
the life of a shut-in with, all of its dreary seclusion 
from the beauties and pleasures of the world which 
I love so well. 

When I was a boy, I amused myself by whittling. 
I would sit for hours at a time making all sorts of 
"little tricks," as we called them; and so I became 
quite skilful with my pocket knife. I could make 
boxes, wooden chains, "snakes," tweezers, ink- 
stands, popguns, flyguns, .crossbows, rattles, water 
guns, bows and arrows, "flutter mills" (water 
wheels), wind mills and many other "little tricks" 
which were of no value to me. And I did so love to 
whittle! My mother would smetimes become tired 
of so* much sweeping— for I kept house and yard 
literally strewn with shavings — and venture to 
remonstrate with me about it. But I continued my 
"whittling club" until my twelfth or thirteenth 
year, and then I began to seek other forms of 
amusement and instruction. It seemed to me that 
T had whittled just about long enough. So T must 
do something else. 

15 



Was all of that whittling done in vain? Did I 
ever gain anything in a material sense by it? No, 
it was not in vain — although of course it earned me 
nothing in a material way. My friends were so 
kind as to bring me pine boxes from the store to 
whittle, and it would have been an act of ingrati- 
tude for me not to have accepted them. My little boy 
friends would often request me to make something 
for them — and I just couldn't refuse. And so when 
I come to think it all, over, to think of the 'ittte 
hearts that I may have perhaps made glad w r itu a 
popgun, flygun, or some other such small article 
which only a child knows how to appreciate, I am 
persuaded into the belief that I could have speni: 
my time to less advantage than that of whittling. 
And I used to cut my fingers very severely, also; 
but that did not cure me of any inclination to whit- 
tle. The cuts would soon get well, and I would 
whittle on 

And right here let me tell a little incident which 
might be taken in connection with the foregoing. 
Once I was ill for a few days. My mother, after I 
had got well enough for her to leave me for a while, 
went to see a neighbor, an old woman who then 
lived near us. Said she to my mother: "Well, an' 
how is Stanhope? Has he got well yit? I wuz jes' 
a tellin' Thomas the other day that if Stanhope died 
there could nothing be said against him but that he 
jes' cut sticks." 

I shall now bring this chapter to an end. And 
since 1 have the quoting habit, acquired from twelve 

16 



long years of reading, perhaps my readers will 
have no objection to a quotation from Goldsmith: 

"By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, 
The sports of children satisfy the child." 

And after all it might, I believe, be truly said that 
those things which are delights of childhood ought 
not to be objects of indifference to us who have 
passed that period in our journey through life. 
Looking back over the days of my existence that 
are gone, I can of a truth say that those things 
which shine brightest in my memory are those 
things which have made me feel happy. But that 
will all be related in the following pages of my book. 



CHAPTER III. 

I have a wheel chair now, which was given to me 
by my friends, neighbors and kinspeople in the year 
1904. I was not aware that they had any such in- 
tention toward me until most of the money whick 
was necessary had been collected. Therefore it was 
something more than just a "pleasant surprise" to 
me, to know that I had been so very kindly remem- 
bered by them. The chair is almost a blessing. 
While it is not necessary for me to use my chair 
when I am in the house, — for I can manage to forego 
the assistance of wheels then, — it is indeed invalu- 
able to me when I wish to got out of doors. My broth- 
ers have, when the roads were dry, wheeled me to 
some of my near neighbors' homes in it; and some- 

17 



times I take it to a picnic with me when I go. And 
since I became owner of this chair on wheels, 1 
have seen many places around, my home-farm which 
I might have never seen had it not been for the 
chair. I have sometimes spent one or two hours in 
the woods, whither my brothers were so good as to 
roll me. And oh! how pleasant, how refreshing, and 
how inspiring it all was! "A day in the autumn 
woods!" Oh if I could only just live again one 
more such day as that I spent once in my life! But 
I cannot — so "what's the use?" — to quote a popular 
bit of slang. 

I also have a writing desk, a clock, a French harp, 
an autoharp, a trunk, a fountain pen, a number of 
books and magazines, and many other little things 
which go to make life pleasant for me. But that 
which I prize most of all is the love and devotion of 
those near and dear to me.. 

I have heard Senator B. R. Tillman speak. He 
spoke at Filbert on July the 24th, 1906, and I was 
one of those who went purposely to hear him — for 
having always lived in a community of "Tillmanites," 
properly speaking, I also am a "Tillmanite." Mr. 
Tillman is a big man; indeed, he has more than 
once in his public career demonstrated his ability, 
and it is sincerely to be regretted that he does oc- 
casionally run ahead of himself. I -have attended 
four big picnics in my life, and they were all at 
Filbert. 

Once I heard' a missionary from China speak, .and 
it made me sad to listen to his description of the 

18 



heathenish practices of the Chinese. As he told, in 
his own simple way, of how the heathen go through 
so many cruelties in worshiping their gods, I was 
more than ever impressed with the fact that the 
whole world needs Christ. 

I cast my first vote last year (1908). I voted in 
the second primary election. South Carolina has, 
as is almost generally known, the primary system 
of nominating candidates to offices of public trust 
and favor. And I consider it a fair method of con- 
ducting elections in some respects, but it is not per- 
fect. Considered from every point of view, it is in- 
deed far from being perfect. I am, however, neither 
a politician nor the son of one; so I will not, here 
and now, deliver myself of a treatise on politics and 
economics. 

The first wedding ceremony that I ever witnessed 
was that of Mr. and Mrs. A. S. C, of Hickory Grove, 
at the home of the bride's parents, Mr. and Mrs. L. 
B., of this place. This was in the afternoon of Wed- 
nesday, September 21st, 1903; and the sacred rites 
were performed by the Rev. S. H. Hay, of Clover, 
who was then pastor of Beersheba church. (Mr. 
Hay was, at that time, a resident of Clover; but I 
am now unable to give the name of his present 
home). 

Among those whom I have met, at different times 
in my life, and whom I am pleased to regard as 
friends, are: Dr. R. A. Bratton, of Yorkville; the 
late Dr. Hamb right, of Smyrna; Dr. W. G. White, 
Hon. D. E. Finley, M. C, Mr. Lewis, a member of 
the Yorkville bar, and Dr. J. I. Barron, of Yorkville; 

19 



Rev. W, T. Thompson and Hon. T. B. Butler, of Gaff 
ney; Hon. W. H. Stewart, of Rock Hill, State Sen- 
ator from York County, and Mr. J. S. Drakeford, who 
used to publish the old Yorkville Yeoman and who 
printed my first writings in his paper. I am shut 
in from the world and its joys and pleasures, and 
one might at first thought be rather inclined to be- 
lieve that my acquaintance with the outside world 
would naturally be limited to a degree. But such is 
not my case — whatever it is with other .shut-in^. 
For I have really seen much of those who, and that 
which, go to make a world of life, vim, sorrow, ener- 
gy, and pleasure. I have received letters, post cards, 
books, papers, and magazines from South Carolina, 
North Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Texas, Mississippi, 
Tennessee, Virginia, New Hampshire, Massachusetts 
and California. But what I prize most of all that I 
have ever received from afar is an autograph letter 
from "Tom Watson." 

So I shall now bring this chapter of my story to an 
end. It is not a finished record of the period of my 
life of which it speaks; but it will, I hope, give my 
readers information about that time sufficient to en- 
able them to form some definite conclusions regard- 
ing my shut-in life. Different readers will have dif- 
ferent thoughts as they peruse these pages, I know; 
but let me rest secure in the hope that not one 
line of my story was penned in vain. Yes, permit 
ine to believe that it will serve to make others, -Who 
are better situated in life than I am, more satisfied 
than perhaps they now are, with their conditions 
and surroundings. God 

§0 



"Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole!" 

— Pope. 



CHAPTER IV. 

The first and earliest thing or person, of which 
1 have any definite recollection of seeing, was a lit- 
tle negro, Asa — Asa Guy Byars, — to give his whole 
name, who lived with his parents on my father's 
farm. He was, I think, about two or three years 
old, and I don't think I could have been any farther 
advanced in years than he was; for I know that I 
was quite small at that period of my life. It seems 
as if Jt were almost a dream; still, I can yet see, 
in memory, a negro woman coming in, nearly every 
day, to borrow something from my mother. And 
with her sometimes came a little boy, whom they 
called Asa — a small, black son of Ham. The wo- 
man's name was Cynthia, and she was Asa's mother. 
The man's name was Bert — Bert Byars; and after 
living on our farm for about eight years, he remov- 
ed, with his family, to Arkansas when I was two or 
three years old. He never came back to South 
Carolina. 

And once, when I was a small boy, there lived, 
right near me, a man whose name was Mage Ram- 
say. He came from "The Nation," and was, I think, 
considered rather a queer personage — though he 
wasn't bad. He tried to run a little store in our 
neighborhood, but I remember him only as a tall, 
slim, erect man, with gray hair, dark complexion, 

21 



and faded cotton clothes. He lived in my neigh- 
borhood for one or two years; then he went back 
to "The Nation," whence he never returned. And 
so that was the last of my "Mr. Mage Ramsey." 
(The two foregoing paragraphs may not he exactly 
correct in every particular, as I am telling only that 
which I can remember; but I trust they are not 
far from the truth). 

I remember the days that I used to spend in a 
dry goods box, while my mother went about doing 
her daily household duties, — singing and always pa- 
tient with me; though I know I must have beefl of 
much trouble to her in those days when I was small, 
young, helpless, and impatient. I remember how 
they used to laugh at my childish mistakes, and how 
I used to so hate to be laughed at — I don't believe 
that I ever shall become accustomed or reconciled 
to some things, either. I remember how people 
used to pity me, and try to comfort me, by asking 
me such questions as "Don't you wish you could run 
out and play like other children?" etc. Poor, mis- 
guided friends! They were trying to comfort an 
afflicted brother, but they didn't know how to do it. 

I remember when my mother taught me my first 
little prayer, and when she first taught me the al- 
phabet. I remember how I once detested books, 
and how shy I once was of the society of girls — but 
how different, how different it is with me now! I 
remember the happy days that I used to spend at 
my uncle's home, "just across the creek" from my 
home; and the fine banjo music which I used to 
hear, and the friends whom I used to meet there. 

22 



Those who played on that instrument, in those far- 
off days of memory at Uncle Sim's, were: "Win- 
bush" McKnight, "Rnfe" Lindsay, Jeff Moore and 
John Johnston, all colored. And they made music 
too! I never seemed to tire of listening to the reso- 
nant, melodious twang of their instruments. Some- 
how or other, the music seemed to awaken certain 
feelings in me that always left me a better boy. 

I remember how I used to be carried over to my 
uncle's house in some one's strong arms, and how 
I once miade a journey home in the night because I 
had suddenly been seized with a fit of home-sick- 
ness. (I think it was generally a colored man who 
would carry me thus in those clays). But after a 
time I became too large to be carried, and then I 
had to seek — or some one had to seek for me — other 
ways of going about. My father once carried me 
to a neighbor's house, to spend the evening, as the 
afternoon is called among the country people; and 
my brothers once took me over to Mr. Thomas Wal- 
lace's home, on a small sled, which they had con- 
structed after their own boyish fashion — and ac- 
cordng to my directions. At another time they took 
me to another neighbor's house on their sled, too. 
And once I was taken over to my uncle's in a wheel- 
barrow! 

And I could go on and on remembering things in 
this fashion, until I fear that my ever patient read- 
ers might at last become too weary to read more; 
but I shall desist for this time, reserving some recol- 
lections for the next chapter. I have so much, and 
yet so little, to tell in my book that I am almost 

23 



afraid it won't be just what I at first intended 
that it should be: a book pulsing and throbbing 
with much of my very own life. Writes Shelley, 
one of my favorite poets, 

"Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory," 

and somehow T feel as if I desired to echo his words, 
they are so beautifully expressive. 



CHAPTER V. 

I have given, in the preceding pages of my 
story, just an incomplete outline, as it were, of 
only a part of my life; therefore I shall devote 
this chapter, and the next, to a concise statement 
of how I have lived and worked from my earliest 
recollection until the present day. 

Until my fourth or fifth year I lived in a goods 
box, in the day-time, and was ill and cross. I sup- 
pose I must have suffered intense pain in those 
days, but I have no recollection of it if I did. My 
family were generally kind to me, and so were the 
neighbors. The most eminent friend that I had 
then was Dr. R. A. Bratton, who has always seemed 
to take much interest in me. I believe that he even 
now devoutly wishes that it were in his power to 
cure me of my affliction. A part of my time I spent 
at my own home, and a part of it I spent at Uncle 
Sim's, being tenderly cared for at both places. I 
can remember the names of those who used to live 
on my father's farm quite as well as if they were 

24 



all standing before me now, when these words are 
being penned; and in my memory I can distinctly 
see them all as they went about their daily labors 
which my father gave them. First in memory 
comes Bert, the colored man whom I have already 
named elsewhere in my story; and then came Cinty, 
the colored woman, and little black Asa; Owens 
Brown and his wife, Dicey, a colored family; Mr. 
and Mrs. Aaron Page and family, Dave, Bill and 
Bessie; Mr. and Mrs. Tom Perry and family of sev- 
eral; another family of negroes; Mrs. Martin and 
her son, whom she called Manuel; and several other 
tenants whom it is not necessary for me to mention 
here, as it has not been so very many years since, 
and as I am telling only that which particularly re- 
lates to my life. 

I can remember who played the first French harp 
in my hearing, and how well I loved it then. I can 
remember the first time I witnessed the painful scene 
of a negro whipping his or her child, and how sin- 
cerely I felt for the little victim. I can remember 
my first and only death scene in our home, and 
what a profound change it brought about in my life. 
Ah! -little girl, whose spirit I believe sometimes 
hovers near me in my dreams, I have often, but not 
lately, seen you since you left us; and one day I 
hope to join 3 r ou in your celestial home. I remem- 
ber the first bicycle that I ever saw, and what a 
sight it was to me then. I remember the first guitar 
that I ever heard, and how sweet I considered it. I 
remember how the negro men used to play on the 
banjo, sing and dance in my uncle's kitchen, and 

as 



how I loved it all. The songs which they sang 
were "Little More Sugar iii the Coffee-o," "Old Gar- 
field," "Reuben," "Mountain-top," and "Sunny Ten- 
nessee" — along with many others that were more 
or less musical. I remember how my little brothers 
used to stay with me, and draw me about pn my 
little arm-chair, and how I used to insist on trying 
my hand at picking cotton. And how bad I was in 
those days! Sometimes I have been afraid that 
I might never be able to live down some of my 
passionate fits of temper! But O Father, help me 
to live as I ought to live! 

I remember the first fiddle that I ever heard, and 
who played on it — just for me. Bob Allison, a color- 
ed man, who considered himself a fine performer on 
the violin indeed, was the player; and I enjoyed, 
then, his playing — though it was wretched. His 
tunes were "Sally Ann," "'Jesse up a Sour Apple- 
Tree," "Sally Good'n" and "Bile Dem Cabbage 
Down;" and I think I learned several of them from 
him — for my soul has always throbbed in unison 
with the soul of harmony everywhere. 

I remember all about what a strange fascination 
that birds of prey used to have for me, how I used 
to love to lock at the buzzards as they greedily de- 
voured the carcass of some dead animal, and what 
strange thoughts they would suggest to my mind. 
But that is only a memory now, as I have long ago 
come to find other ways of employing myself than 
just idly dreaming my time away. 

I remember the' long, happy summer days which 
I used to spend in conversation with Mr. Thomas 

26 



Wallace, my old bachelor friend; and how I enjoyed 
the stories which he would tell me. Mr. Wallace is 
a born story-teller, and some of his stories would 
make a unique book if they could all be written out 
in an appropriate style. I remember the time when 
I first became interested in literature, and how I 
used to love such papers as the old Yorkville "Yeo- 
man," the old "Sunny South," "The Youth's Com- 
panion," "The Constitution," "Fireside Gem," "Com- 
fort," "Tom Watson's Magazine," "Watson's Maga- 
zine," and "Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine." Ah! 
yes, those were the happiest days of my whole life; 
and I sball cling to my memories of them as long as 
I live in this world. I love them as I would love 
my soul's mate. I remember all about the strange 
dreams which I used to have, and what profound 
impressions they would leave on my mind. 
But I think some of my day-dreams were much 
stiangsr than these which I had in my sleep, how- 
ever; since T know I am much more of a day-dream- 
er than any one has ever thought I was. I remem- 
ber the strange, frightful, fascinating witch, "hant" 
and ghost tales which I used to hear the colored 
people relate, with all of a colored person's queer 
powers of narration and description; and how it all 
would charm me, while it also would make me fee! 
very strange. I remember the strange fascination 
that the suu, moon and stars have always had for 
me, — and even yet I never tire of talking about 
them. I remember the sweet tunes which my moth- 
< i- used to sing as she went about her daily house- 
hold labors, and how I enjoyed them. And some- 

27 



times she sings them yet, too. I remember the 
time that I went over to Mr. Wallace's home, on a 
little sled and through the woods. It was in chest- 
nut-dropping time, and Mr. Wallace gave me chest- 
nuts to eat. I remember the time that I went to 
see the blind minsterls. It was in the month of 
October, and the minstrels had entertained at a 
school house near my home the night before. But 
as I could not attend the entertainment, I went in 
daylight to see them. They were resting at a neigh- 
bor's house that day; — and I did so want to see and 
hear them! They were a middle-aged man and his 
son, who were both blind, and a little girl who 
wasn't. She was the elder minstrel's daughter; and 
she was, truly, eyes for both her father and brother, 
— if ever any one was! 

I remember the first time that they took me to 
church. I was visiting at Uncle Jackson's, ten miles 
from, home, and one Sunday afternoon he took me 
to Beth-Shiloh. And I think it made some of the 
congregation feel strange; for they evinced some 
concern when my uncle carried me in. I also re- 
member the singing and preaching very well; for I 
truly enjoyed it. They had no organ at Beth-Shiloh 
then, either; still, they sang well, I thought. 

And so I shall now close this chapter. My memory 
is my dearest treasure in this world, as it is also 
my most painful one sometimes. For in deed and in 
truth, "my mind to me a kingdom is." 

May I never abuse it! 

28 



Chapter vi. 

1 have acquired my education by studying at 
home, and without any assistance from any one. 
My mother, sisters, and brothers first taught me 
some; after which I have just continued my studies, 
alone and unassisted. And so for twelve long - , weary 
years I have read, studied and written. Sometimes 
I have become almost discouraged, too. I somehow 
ielt that I never could attain the height at which 
I have always aimed; nevertheless, having once 
started, 'twould never do in the world for me to turn 
back. My own family have encouraged me all they 
could; but having been very poor, they could do 
nothing in a material way. Papers, books, letters,, 
post cards and magazines have been literally show- 
ered upon me by my friends and admirers almost 
everywhere; and while I have read much, I never 
could read all that I. received. Among those who 
have given me especial encouragement to write are 
to be found many eminent and distinguished people, 
as well as many others of lesser degree. Indeed, 
everybody I have ever seen, or ever heard of 
has urged me on in my work. Somehow or other, 
they all seem to believe that I have something in 
me which they want to see brought out and develop- 
ed. But I only see it in this light: I am filled with 
an intense desire to acquire a liberal education, to 
become a successful author, to earn an honest liv- 
ing, to one day build me a magnificent home, to one 
day see my own dear mother given a rest from a 
life-time of drudgery, to battle mightily for the 



truth, and to finally become enshrined in the hearts 
of the common people. I have one other desire, too; 
but I cannot express it here. It is the world-old 
yearning which every man or woman possesses for 
his or her soul's mate. I know that I can never do 
as others do, the world over; therefore I shall en- 
deavor to find companionship in books. Ah! if I 
could only do away with my "aching void!'' Even 
now as I write, my soul is troubled by a secret sor- 
row. Love, inability to- satisfy the craving of my 
carnal nature, my lofty yearnings after that which 
is beyond my reach, my inability to control my evil 
and passionate temper, the fear that I am often 
misunderstood, and countless other little things all 
combined to form the low, dark, dreary side of my 
nature. Still, my faith never wavers. It is as strong 
today as it ever was. The one comfort that I have 
is my unlimited faith in the "Father's goodness. 
Many and many a time have I prayed, in almost an 
agony of spirit, for guidance. But let it all pass 
now. I can tell no more. Draw a curtain over it, 
and henceforth let my past remain concealed from 
view. I have lived an honest, true life; therefore 
my little sorrows do not concern the world. 

I have acquired my education by reading, think- 
ing, writing, studying, and observing. I have ac- 
quired it by talking with people, contemplating the 
greatness and goodness of our Father, by reading 
the Word, by observing the "shallow crowd" or the 
"passing show," by attending country dances — 
where they play on the banjo, violin or French harp 
and dance, and by just striving to learn, every day 

30 



of my life, something new and strange. I have ac- 
quired it by and from books, from people, from 
flowers, from music, from poetry, from the earth 
below, and from the heavens above. I have, literally, 
received knowledge and instruction from every 
source within my reach. Still, my life has been a 
hard strrugle, containing a very great deal of sor- 
row and discouragement. But after all, I believe 
that mine has not been as hard and pity-inspiring as 
many another's. Therefore, I am encouraged and 
comforted. I have always had enough to eat and 
wear; kind parents, brothers and sisters; loving 
friends and relatives; and, generally, a paper kind 
enough to allow me space in its columns. 

I remember the first letter that I ever wrote, and 
how proud of my achievement I was. I can also 
remember the first one that I ever received. I re- 
member my first visit away from home. It lasted 
a week. I was at niy Uncle Jackson's, ten miles 
distant; and while I was there, I visited around 
some in the neighborhood. Briefly stated, my life 
has been spent in whittling, trying to play on my 
banjo, reading and writing, visiting, building air cas- 
tles, attending picnics, preachings and parties, play- 
ing on my French harp, and penning "copy'' for the 
local paper's. Mr. Cain once gave me an old banjo, 
but I've never learned to play on it at all. Being 
left-handed, the banjo is not an instrument for me 

I remember the first party that I ever attended, 
and how well I enjoyed it. In the country, they have 
what they call parties; but which are, in reality, 
country dances. The young people of the neigh- 

31 



borhood all assemble at a neighbor's house, where 
they have music, dance, talk and laugh, "sport," and 
have a good time generally until about midnight, 
when they break up and depart for their respective 
homes — to dream of the fine time they have had. 
And of course, many rustic lovers have to '"see as 
many more of the opposite sex home' from these 
parties, tco. I myself have furnished the music .for 
them, on my little French harp, at some of their 
parties; for which they gladly paid me in coin of the 
realm. And once, at one of these parties, I fell in 
love — but I'll reserve that for another time. It would 
require more time, space, and ornamentation than 
I now have at my disposal to tell my own love story. 
Nevertheless, I have one. Sometime I intend to 
publish it— but not now. Will only say that my own. 
love story has made a man of me. 

I have written for the old Yorkville "Yeoman,'* the 
old "Sunny South" of Atlanta, Ga., "The Practical 
Farmer" of Philadelphia, the old Yorkville "New 
Era," the Rock Hill "Record," and am now working 
on The Gaffney Ledger. Life is pleasant for me 
now. I have lived to overcome many of my troubles, 
and success is about to crown my efforts. I have 
penned an immense amount of "copy" for The Led- 
ger, but my message has not been delivered yet. 
Next year I am going to continue my work— if it be 
the Father's will. The next chapter will describe 
my home life as it is today. 

"A sacred burden is this life to bear, 
Look on it, lift it, bear it solerrinly, 

32 



Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly, 
Pail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win." 

— Kemble. 



CHAPTER VII. 

I have not given, in the foregoing pages, quite 
as complete a history of my life and work as was 
possible; for lack of time and space forbade my 
doing so. Nevertheless, I hope that my readers 
will not be too badly disappointed with my book. 
I have truly labored hard and devotedly on this 
manuscript, and sometimes I have come very near 
giving it up as an impossible task. But each time 
that thought entered my mind, it was quickly follow- 
ed by another and a stronger. My friends have 
clone so much for me since I began my literary 
career that, somehow or other, I just could not af- 
ford to lay down my work at this stage. And, too. 
what my brain had created my brain refused to 
disown. Hence this little book is timidly and prayer- 
fully submitted to the reading public. 

I am studying every clay now. I have acquired 
some education along the lines of English, gram- 
mar, history, and general literature; but I must ad- 
mit that I am sadly deficient in other branches of 
learning. Will N. Harben is my favorite novelist 
living today, and Thos E. Watson is my favorite 
writer on politics and economics. I love my file of 
old "Watsons" very devotedly, too. Percy Bysshe 
shflioy is my favorite poet of yesterday, and F-ranfc 

33 



L. Stanton is my favorite singer of today. I com 
sider Shelley's lines on "The Cloud" the most sub 
lime thing of the sort that I have ever read. "Ruck 
of Ages" is my favorite hymn, and "Home Sweet 
Home" is one of my favorite pieces of music; al- 
though I've so many musical favorites that it is 
hard for me to make one selection from thsm all. 
I love beauty in all things and everywhere; indeed, 
my very soul yearns, always, for beauty, and sym- 
pathy, and harmony, and companionship, and love. 
I can remember some incidents in connection with 
my early life which always make me sad. I am by 
nature rather light-hearted; but I believe that, away 
down below the surface, I am capable of feeling very 
tenderly and sympathetically. 

I have my father and mother, and brothers and 
sisters with me yet; and they are. all very kind to 
me. And the most beautiful thing about their de- 
votion is, that it is not at all a put on — it is as natur- 
al for them to be so as for their hearts to beat, i 
know that I am not always satisfied; for I am only 
human, after all. Still, my happiness does not de- 
pend upon my securing other companions besides 
those I have always had with me. Other girls have 
made impressions on me, it is true; and I love to 
build air castles around "the dearest one." But that 
is all. I know that I do love somebodj^, though my 
affliction forever cuts me off from the realization 
of "love's young dream." When I first began to 
write for publication, I -seemed lonely and forsaken. 
But now my correspondence has made me many 
warm friends. It is generally conceded by every 

34 ' 



one that the world has little charity indeed; but on- 
ly those who work on the newspapers know just 
how much goodness there is in it; all that it con- 
tains in every form of creation shows some good, I 
believe. And sometimes the manifestations of my 
friends' love for me almost bring the tears to my 
eyes. It was only the other day that I received a 
queer little communication which awakened the ten- 
derest of sentiments in my heart. It was a short 
letter, and the price of one copy of this book, from 
a little unknown girl. Ah! what emotions of sym- 
pathy and gratitude that passed in my mind as I 
persued her dear, little childishly-penciled note! 

Kind friends, one and all, I have not told the com- 
plete story of my life — because I couldn't. I should 
love to do so yet, but I cannot. I have not lived 
enough of it. When I am quiet and thoughtful, I 
can remember many things which should have found 
place in the foregoing. Therefore when I go to have 
a, new edition published — which I intend to do — I 
shall perhaps be able to tell my complete history. 

As the closing lines are being written this Sep- 
tember afternoon my mind is busy among the ashes 
of other days. Somehow, it is too full for speech. 
I would fain go on — but something bids me stop. 
So I must obey the Voice within. But the finest, 
most sublime, beautiful and tender sentiments of 
my soul must remain untold for yet a little 
while to come. I have not related how I used to 
make "gins," "threshers," etc., with my pocket 
knife; how I used to think there was nothing to 
compare with the beautiful spring-time and autumn 

36 



in Dixie; and neither have I given any of our old 
play songs. But farewell! gentle readers. Read in 
these pages my story, and then remember a poor, 
lonely, afflicted shut-in brother who longs for your 
devoted love and sympathy. Girls, with brown eyes 
and blue, remember me. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

As I have t at last succeeded in composing some- 
thing which I am pleased to call a book, a few 
words in closing may not be out of place. So, "here 
goes" — to use a common expression: 

The first part of my book is a section from 
my scrap book — "Aspiration"— which I consider 
one of the finest, purest, most sublime things 
of the sort that I have ever read anywhere. The 
author of it is unknown to me; ■ and the words 
in brackets, "the 'good old summer-time,' " are of 
my own insertion, since my story was written in the 
summer of this year (1909.) 

The second part of my book — "II Introduction: 
James Stanhope Love, R. F. D. No. 1, Filbert, S. C, 
July 16th, 1909," — is, for the most part, composed 
of selections from Cicero and Dorothy Wordsworth. 
They, too, have been chosen because of their liter- 
ary worth. 

The third part of my book — Chapter I — closes 
with a quotation from James Montgomery: "I love, 
thee O my native Isile!" 

The fourth part of my book — Chapter II — closes 
with a quotation from Goldsmith:— r 

36 



"By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, 
The sports of children satisfy the child." 

The fifth part of my book-Chapter n— closes 
with a quotation from Pope: — 

"Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole." 

The sixth part of my book— Chapter IV— closes 
with a quotation from Shelley: — 

"Music, when soft voices die 
Vibrates in the memory." 

The seventh part of my book-Chapter V-closes 
with a quotation from Dyer: «My mind to me a 
kingdom is." 

The eighth part of my book-Chapter Vl-closes 
with a quotation from Kemble: — 

"A sacred burden is this life to bear, 
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, 
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly, 
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win." 

The ninth part of my book-Chapter Vll-is a 
sort of description of my present state. And the 
tenth part of my book-Chapter VIII-is just a 
peroration, as it were, of the preceding. 

The summer has departed; and with many other 
things, it has taken away the sweet hours that I 
have spent over my manuscripts. The autumn has 
once more returned to Dixie; and while we heave a 

37 



sigh for the departed summer, we also rejoice at 
autumn's coming. The Father has been so good to 
us this year! And because of His eternal love, I 
know He will continue t© bless us. The cotton is 
opening, the trees are turning to a saffon hue, the 
dry fir sings its last tune for this year, the whip- 
poorwill is silent, the frost is truly coming, the boys 
are out hunting 'possums at night, autumn fruits 
are ripening, and Autumn with all of her natural 
splendor is with us once more. 



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